


I Contend That Your Drinking Eye Has Never Opened

by haunted_by_catholic_guilt



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Sick Character, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump, helen ships jon and martin, she/her pronouns for helen, typical spiral confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haunted_by_catholic_guilt/pseuds/haunted_by_catholic_guilt
Summary: “Hush, Archivist, you’re hurting yourself more.”Someone.He was with someone.“Breathe.”Breathing, yes that was a thing he should do.
Relationships: Helen | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 116





	I Contend That Your Drinking Eye Has Never Opened

**Author's Note:**

> just a short little fic of Helen taking care of Jon because I think she is spiral mom

Spinning. 

The room was spinning.

Jon is sure rooms aren’t supposed to spin like this.

He was laying down on something, he wasn’t sure what, but it was hard.

He didn’t know where he was.

He didn’t really care, either.

His throat hurt, it felt like someone had shoved dozens of needles down it and left them there.

His head also hurt, feeling like someone took a hammer and caved his skull in.

He was hot, it shouldn't have been that hot, wherever he was, saying as 10 minutes ago, he was freezing wherever he was.

He hurt, the Knowing hurt, the small noises from outside hurt, and he didn’t even dare open his eyes to see if that made it hurt worse.

Suddenly, there was every noise he could think of.

He grabbed his head and quickly folded in on himself, his stomach, however, did not like this, and he had the scramble to sit up, as his stomach lurched.

He didn’t have time to find a bucket, he doesn’t remember how it got there, but he was grateful for the bucket that was in his hands as the tea he’d had earlier made reappearance, along with bile.

He didn’t realize till after that there was a large hand rubbing circles on his back, but it didn’t feel.. human, it felt prickly, and unnatural, but it was welcome, whatever it was.

He set the bucket aside and tried to curl back into himself, grateful that the earlier noise had ceased, and now all that remained was a low hum of static, which was comforting in a way.

“Hello, Archivist.”

A woman’s voice, but not a woman, cold yet comforting, close and far away. 

“You’ve gotten yourself into quite the mundane trouble today, haven’t you?”

He made a noise, it hurt to think, it hurt to Know.

The static disappeared, and then came back, and he felt the hand on his back again, urging him up.

“Drink.”

A cup was pressed to his lips, he took a sip or two, before falling back.

And then it went black.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was not Helen’s plan for the day.

‘She’ had planned to go and poke a little fun at the Archivist, maybe cause some trouble elsewhere.

Not taking care of an ill Archivist.

Did ‘she’ even remember how to take care of someone? 

Helen Richardson did not have any children, and did not have a husband, or a boyfriend, or a wife or girlfriend.

Now ‘she’ wasn’t Helen, but ‘she’ may have been.

They weren’t the only ones in the institute, ‘she’ knew this because ‘her’ and Melanie had just had a conversation, and Daisy and Basira were in the breakroom speaking loudly, but none of them liked The Archivist.

Helen Richardson liked The Archivist, Micheal seemed to enjoy him too.

The Archivist was still too human to be treated so poorly.

Helen stared at the still form on the ground, the short man curled even smaller on the floor of his office, his long hair in a bun and glasses nowhere to be seen, ‘she’ looked around the room and saw a now cold cup of tea on his desk, next to some old looking statements and a tape recorder.

“You are a fool, Archivist.”

‘She’ was unsure of what to do, and quickly debated kidnapping Martin to come and take of him, Jon had told ‘her’ of how he used to take care of him, but decided against it, for the time being, at least.

So, Helen sat on the couch in his office, keeping watch over the sleeping form.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t know where he was, and he couldn’t breathe.

He started to jerk around, trying to free himself of whatever was trapping him in.

He let out a strangled cry, he was alone and he didn’t want to be alone.

“Hush, Archivist, you’re hurting yourself more.”

Someone. 

He was with someone.

“Breathe.”

Breathing, yes that was a thing he should do.

He couldn’t.

He started to panic again and thrashed around on the floor where he assumed he was laying.

He heard a sigh.

“Archivist”

The voice was bored, but spun in circles in his mind.

He tried to open his eyes, but that was a mistake.

Spirals.

Spirals of every color, spinning, and spinning.

He slammed his eyes shut, feeling like a burning rod had been shoved through his eye.

He was still thrashing around, until a sharp hand found his shoulder, and forced him to relax.

Who was he with that had such sharp hands, and had that unnatural tone to their voice?

Ah.

Helen.

Should he run? 

Helen never tried to hurt him before, Micheal did, but not Helen, ‘she’ tried to help.

In away.

His breaths were shaky and short, his outburst making him exhausted.

“H-Helen?”

He could hear ‘her’ smile, wide and chaotic.

“Hello, Archivist”

He heard ‘her’ shift, and the sound of wood creaking, probably leaning against ‘her’ door now.

‘Her’ presence shouldn’t be comforting, but in a way it was, he wasn’t going to get killed by another avatar with Helen here, he felt safe.

“You’re quite ill, I assumed your eye would have stopped this but.. here we are”

He hummed in reply, he knew he was sick because of the Eye, because he hadn’t been feeding it.

Because he wasn’t allowed to feed it.

“Still not taking statements hm?”

He nodded, or tried to and ‘she’ seemed to understand, or ‘she’ wasn’t even looking for confirmation.

He was shivering now, too cold to think, or do anything about his current predicament.

He heard movement, and suddenly a blanket was draped over him.

“Sleep now, Archivist, and do get better”

He drifted away, hearing a door creak shut as he slipped into unconsciousness.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on my tumblr at haunted-by-catholic-guilt


End file.
